Part 13 (1/2)

”If that's the way you are going to treat it, I would sooner not have it--the face in the gla.s.s, a lot of repet.i.tions of words, sentences beginning with 'And,' then a mention of shoes and silk stockings. If you can't write feelingly about her, you had better not write at all.”

”I don't see that a string of colloquialisms const.i.tute feelings,”

said Mike.

Mike kept his temper; he did not intend to allow it to imperil his residence in Temple Gardens, or his position in the newspaper; but he couldn't control his vanity, and ostentatiously threw Lady Helen's handkerchief upon the table, and admitted to having picked it up in the hotel.

”What am I to do with it? I suppose I must keep it as a relic,” he added with a laugh, as he opened his wardrobe.

There were there ladies' shoes, scarves, and neckties; there were there sachets and pincus.h.i.+ons; there were there garters, necklaces, cotillion favours, and a tea-gown.

Again Frank boiled over with indignation, and having vented his sense of rect.i.tude, he left the room without even bidding his friend good-night or good-morning. The next day he spent the entire afternoon with Lizzie, for Lady Helen's suicide had set his nature in active ferment.

In the story of every soul there are times of dissolution and reconstruction in which only the generic forms are preserved. A new force had been introduced, and it was disintegrating that ma.s.s of social fibre which is modern man, and the decomposition teemed with ideas of duty, virtue, and love. He interrupted Lizzie's chit-chat constantly with reflections concerning the necessity of religious belief in women.

About seven they went to eat in a restaurant close by. It was an old Italian chop-house that had been enlarged and modernized, but the original marble tables where customers ate chops and steaks at low prices were retained in a remote and distant corner. Lizzie proposed to sit there. They were just seated when a golden-haired girl of theatrical mien entered.

”That's Lottie Rily,” exclaimed Lizzie. Then lowering her voice she whispered quickly, ”She was in love with Mike once; he was the fellow she left her 'ome for. She's on the stage now, and gets four pounds a week. I haven't seen her for the last couple of years. Lottie, come and sit down here.”

The girl turned hastily. ”What, Lizzie, old pal, I have not seen you for ages.”

”Not for more than two years. Let me introduce you to my friend, Mr.

Escott--Miss Lottie Rily of the Strand Theatre.”

”Very pleased to make your acquaintance, sir; the editor of the _Pilgrim_, I presume?”

Frank smiled with pleasure, and the waiter interposed with the bill of fare. Lottie ordered a plate of roast beef, and leaned across the table to talk to her friend.

”Have you seen Mike lately?” asked Lizzie.

”Swine!” she answered, tossing her head. ”No; and don't want to. You know how he treated me. He left me three months after my baby was born.”

”Have you had a baby?”

”What, didn't you know that? It is seven months old; 'tis a boy, that's one good job. And he hasn't paid me one penny piece. I have been up to Barber and Barber's, but they advised me to do nothing.

They said that he owed them money, and that they couldn't get what he owed them--a poor look-out for me. They said that if I cared to summons him for the support of the child, that the magistrate would grant me an order at once.”

”And why don't you?” said Frank; ”you don't like the _expose_ in the newspapers.”

”That's it.”

”Do you care for him still?”

”I don't know whether I do, or don't. I shall never love another man, I know that. I saw him in front about a month ago. He was in the stalls, and he fixed his eyes upon me; I didn't take the least notice, he was so cross. He came behind after the first act. He said, 'How old you are looking!' I said, 'What do you mean?' I was very nicely made up too, and he said, 'Under the eyes.' I said, 'What do you mean?' and he said, 'You are all wrinkles.' I said, 'What do you mean?' and he went down-stairs.... Swine!”

”He isn't good-looking,” said Frank, reflectively, ”a broken nose, a chin thrust forward, and a mop of brown curls twisted over his forehead. Give me a pencil, and I'll do his caricature.”

”Every one says the same thing. The girls in the theatre all say, 'What in the world do you see in him?' I tell them that if he chose--if he were to make up to them a bit, they'd go after him just the same as I did. There's a little girl in the chorus, and she trots about after him; she can't help it. There are times when I don't care for him. What riles me is to see other women messing him about.”

”I suppose it is some sort of magnetism, electro-biology, and he can't help exercising it any more than you women can resist it. Tell me, how did he leave you?”